


When You Need Help

by cyberiandemons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Delusions, Gen, Hallucinations, Paranoia, Schizoaffective Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberiandemons/pseuds/cyberiandemons
Summary: Delusions. Jon had been dealing with delusions since he was a child, around seven or eight. He would lay awake until two or three in the morning, staring at the window, chest heavy with the absolute certain knowledge that somebody was about to break in and kill him and his grandmother. He had tried to warn her—of course he had tried to warn her—but she didn’t listen. So he would sit, tears in his eyes and stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest, waiting for the moment when somebody broke in with a knife.—A fic where Jon's struggles with paranoia in season two are greatly worsened by schizoaffective disorder.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 45
Kudos: 345





	When You Need Help

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have schizoaffective disorder (a mental illness related to schizophrenia), and I relate VERY hard to Jon in season two. I wanted to write a fic exploring how his actions and fears throughout the season could actually make a lot of sense in the framework of schizoaffective. 
> 
> I want to give a heads up now that this is a pretty rough fic emotionally—it's a very personal and realistic look at a serious mental illness, so it might be a little hard to read (especially if you also deal with things like delusions and paranoia). The things in this fic are based on my own experiences and symptoms. Tread with caution.
> 
> Thanks! Enjoy.

Contrary to popular conceptions of his mental illness, Jon didn’t hear voices.

Or—well, he did, in a way. Just not the way people think. He would hear the quiet murmur of a conversation from the flat above him, even though it had been vacant for months. He would hear Tim laughing in the archives, even though he had gone home hours ago. He would hear his grandmother calling for him from the other room, even though she had been dead for several years.

But he didn’t hear voices that weren’t his speaking directly to him—telling him that people were going to hurt him, or that he should hurt other people. Those thoughts were entirely in his own voice. He didn’t hear them the way that you’d hear somebody speaking next to you, he heard them the way you’d hear your own thoughts. That was what was so dangerous about them, wasn’t it? When he wasn’t paying enough attention, the delusions were indistinguishable from his own thoughts.

Delusions. Jon had been dealing with delusions since he was a child, around seven or eight. He would lay awake until two or three in the morning, staring at the window, chest heavy with the absolute certain knowledge that somebody was about to break in and kill him and his grandmother. He had tried to warn her—of course he had tried to warn her—but she didn’t listen. So he would sit, tears in his eyes and stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest, waiting for the moment when somebody broke in with a knife.

That moment never came, of course. After a few months of nearly-sleepless nights, his grandmother took him to a therapist. He was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and went through extensive therapy. It helped, a little. Not completely.

When he was seventeen, he had what he now referred to as his Big Teenage Breakdown. After weeks of mounting paranoia, he was sitting in class and trying not to flinch at every noise when his teacher started walking towards him while holding a pair of scissors. Jon screamed and bolted out of the classroom. He hid in the woods outside his home for hours until his grandmother finally found him. As she approached him, he began to cry again.

“I’m sorry,” he had choked out as she came closer. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t know why I—”

Jon had expected scolding, yelling; had expected her to tell him that he was a horrid, ungrateful child, that he was awful, that he was crazy. Instead, she drew him into a tight, tight hug and held him there for nearly half an hour while he sobbed.

When they were sitting on the couch with quilts around them and warm cups of tea in their hands, she slowly explained that his father had dealt with a mental illness called schizoaffective disorder.

Jon let out a short, indignant laugh. “I’m not  _ crazy _ !”

His grandmother sighed and placed a hand on his knee. “I’m not saying you are, Jonathan,” she said very patiently, “But I am saying that you need help. You know that, don’t you?”

He wrapped his gangly arms around himself. “... Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

This time, he got the more accurate diagnosis, better therapy, and—finally—medication. It took him a few months of switching medications, but they finally found him one that worked. The pills dissolved under his tongue. The box said they tasted like black cherry. He supposed that could be true, if you came from a universe where black cherries regularly went around punching people in the face.

Several months later, in his first year of college, he had a few friends over for games one night. Their house wasn’t large by any means—his grandmother had intended it as the home to live out her retirement in, not to raise a child in—and the nature of the layout meant that his grandmother was in and out of the room a few times over the course of the night. When his friends were gone and Jon was cleaning up the dishes, he looked over to see his grandmother smiling ever so slightly as she poured herself a glass of water.

“What’s got you so happy?”

She glanced over at him with surprise in her eyes, as if she hadn’t realized she was doing it. “It’s just…” she sighed a little, and the hint of a smile came back. “It’s been a while since I heard you laugh like that, Jonathan. I’m glad you’re making friends.”

Jon grinned as he turned back to the dishes. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“And that Georgie girl was  _ very  _ nice—”

“ _ Grandmother _ .”

He had been doing better. So, so much better. Delusions and hallucinations still occurred, certainly, but once or twice a month at most—sometimes less than that, even. And when they did occur, he knew how to talk himself down from them (or, when necessary, how to recognize when he needed to call up Georgie and ask for her help). He was doing better. He was doing better.

And now he wasn’t.

He sat on his bed, the lights off throughout the house, blanket pulled around him and a kitchen knife gripped in his hand. Leaving the lights off had come with his paranoia since he was a child—he knew that if the lights were on, it would make him an easier target. So the lights were off. It was safer this way. It was safer this way. It was safer this way.

Gertrude Robinson had been killed in the archives.

Somebody in the archives killed Gertrude Robinson.

Somebody in the archives killed the Head Archivist.

Somebody in the archives wanted the Head Archivist dead.

He was the current Head Archivist.

Somebody in the archives was going to try to kill him.

Jon let out a long, shaky breath. He glanced at the clock and tried not to cry. He had to leave for work in four hours. He should try to get in the shower in three and a half. Jesus. Hands shaking, he slowly made himself set the knife on his bedside table and grab his pill organizer instead.

As he flipped open that day’s box, he froze. One of the reasons that they had settled on this medication was that it had the least severe side effects of any of the meds they had tried, but it did have one: it made him very, very drowsy. And “drowsy” was putting it lightly—he was sluggish, barely able to move, barely able to keep his eyes open, barely able to think. He rarely had to deal with it, as he took them right before falling asleep and the effect was usually long gone by the time he woke. But three and a half hours wasn’t enough time for it to wear off. If he took the meds now, there was no way he’d be able to go to work tomorrow morning. He swore under his breath.

He could text Elias now and tell him that he was taking a sick day; text the archival team to let them know that he wasn’t feeling well, but would be available by phone if they needed him.

But what if that made them suspicious? What if whoever it was who wanted to kill him realized that he was onto them? Or what if they took this as their chance to sneak in and kill him while he was asleep?

Jon let out a shaky breath and put the pill container down. He picked the knife back up.

He sat like that until sunrise.

* * *

The next night, he made sure to get in bed with plenty of time to take his meds. He had gone through all of the routines that helped him get sleepy—he hadn’t looked at his phone in over an hour, he had taken a long bath with lavender bath salts and a good book, he had made himself a nice cup of tea. As he turned his bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, he climbed into bed and looked over at his pill container.

Jon froze. Had he left it laying on its side like that? He could have sworn he left it upright. And hadn’t he left it on the near side of the table, not the far side? He let out a shaky breath as he slowly reached over and picked it up. The meds came packaged in a blister pack, and he was in the habit of cutting seven squares out at the beginning of each week and placing an individually sealed pill into each day of his organizer. He pulled out the pill for that night, finding it still sealed tight. Or was it? Had the corner always been that loose? Had the edge always been slightly misaligned?

A horrible, overwhelming certainty began to rush over him as he realized what had happened. Whoever wanted to kill him had snuck into his house while he was at work and tampered with his medication. It could have been any of them—the archival assistants all got an hour lunch break, which was plenty of time to get to his flat and back; and Elias, of course, could leave the Institute as he pleased. One of them had snuck in and replaced his pills with—with something. Lethal poison, most likely. Or maybe just something that would slow him down, make him sluggish. Make him an easier target. That would make the most sense if they hated him enough that they wanted the satisfaction of killing him personally.

Well, he would give them no such satisfaction.

He stood up and threw all of his meds away. 

* * *

Several weeks later, Jon woke to the sound of somebody breaking into his bedroom.

He gasped and bolted up, scrambling to curl up in the corner with his back to the wall as he grabbed the knife that had taken up permanent residence on his bedside table. He looked around the room, searching for the intruder.

The room was empty.

Jon blinked, turning to look at his phone on the bedside table. The alarm was sounding. He groaned, inwardly hitting himself as he reached over and turned the alarm off. The alarm. Just the alarm.

He stood, sticking his phone in the pocket of his plaid pajama pants as he did. The pants sagged with the weight of his phone, nearly slipping off of his hips. Jon set the knife down, freeing his hands to tug the pants up and tighten the drawstring. Had these pants always been so baggy? Had his shirts always hung this loose? What if somebody was poisoning him—trying to weaken him?

As he reached his bedroom door—knife in hand again—he paused. When was the last time he had eaten? He had to have eaten sometime yesterday, right? He didn’t eat in the Institute anymore. Too risky. Martin had noticed, kept bringing him food and pushing him to eat it. Each time he did, Jon’s suspicion of Martin deepened. What was he trying to slip into Jon’s food?

Jon shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts enough that he could keep walking. He kept the knife in his dominant hand, reaching out to unlock the door and grab the doorknob with his right hand. As he started turning the knob, he paused again. His heart stopped. Somebody was on the other side of the door.

No, that was ridiculous. The windows and doors in his flat were all locked, and you needed a key code to even get into the building. Nobody could have gotten in.

But obviously, somebody had. And that somebody was on the other side of the door, knife or gun raised, ready to strike him down the second he opened the door.

He squeezed his eyes shut. This was not real. This was not a valid fear. This was a delusion. This was not real. This was not—

A thump sounded somewhere, distant. Jon’s heart raced as his head began to swim. What the fuck should he do now? If they had gotten into the building and into his flat, clearly a locked door wouldn’t stop them. Maybe he should try leaving through the fire escape—but who knows what could be waiting at the bottom? He took in several deep breaths, trying to steady himself. For a brief second, he considered calling 999. But that was a horrible idea—even if they could get there in time, the police weren’t in the business of helping people like him.

He was going to have to face the intruder eventually. And he might as well do it on his terms.

Jon took in a deep breath and threw the door open, yelling and raising the knife.

The hallway was empty.

Fuck. They were hiding. Of course.

Heart racing and breath coming so fast he felt like he was going to pass out, Jon began to creep through his flat. He looked through every room, every closet, behind every piece of furniture. With each door that he opened, each corner that he rounded, he was certain that the intruder would be behind it. And yet, every time, he only saw empty space. Little by little, his breathing began to slow. He made his way to the bathroom, setting the knife on the counter and locking the door.

Jon stared at himself in the fluorescent light of his bathroom. Had he always looked this terrible? Were the bags under his eyes always this deep? As he leaned forward to get a better look, a piece of hair fell in his face. It was uncomfortably greasy. Taking showers was hard now—he couldn’t keep the curtain closed because somebody would be able to sneak up on him; but if he left it open, the water would get all over the floor. Baths were a little more possible, but he felt so… vulnerable, like that. More hair fell in his face. He tried to push it aside, running his fingers through it.

His hair had been a bit long since high school; he preferred to keep it brushing his shoulders. But this was… unkempt. Unprofessional, certainly. But it wasn’t like he could have someone else cut it for him—letting somebody get near his neck with scissors was far, far too risky. He took a deep breath and ventured out to the kitchen, going as carefully as he could. Heart pounding, he grabbed the kitchen shears and quickly made his way back to the bathroom, locking the door again as soon as he got inside. He shoved his shirt off, grimacing at what he saw in the mirror. Don’t pay attention to that, he told himself. Just focus on your hair.

His hands shook as he raised the scissors to his hair, beginning to trim pieces away. He wanted to keep it neat, to get back to the tidy bob he was used to, but his hands were so inexperienced and so shaky that it kept coming away in chunks. A few minutes later, it looked even worse than it had before. Jon groaned and began digging around in the drawers again. Buried at the bottom of the lowest drawer was a black box containing an electric razor set. He had picked it up in college (during his ill-advised undercut phase) and had never gotten rid of it, figuring he might use it again one day. Well, one day had come. Hands still shaking, he clipped on the 1/4" guard and turned the razor on.

Several minutes later, the majority of his hair was on the floor around him. He leaned forward, running his hand along his scalp and wincing. That… might have been a bad call. But what other decision could he have made? He couldn’t just let his hair grow even more unruly, and he couldn’t trust anybody else to cut it for him. Besides, now nobody could grab it. He had made the right decision.

He let out a long, shaky sigh and forced himself to get into the shower. Time for work soon.

* * *

Jon stared at the mug of tea in his hands. He was leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. He kept staring. How long had it been since he cut his hair the first time? Was it a week ago? A day ago? A month ago?

“Jon?”

Jon blinked, looking over at Georgie. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked how you’re doing?”

“Ah. Uh…” Jon stared at the tea for a moment before slowly taking a small sip. It tasted… fine. Completely fine. Just like normal, ordinary tea. Jon never kept this particular tea in his house—he never had the patience for loose leaf tea, he only bought bags—but it was the blend he always gravitated towards when he was at Georgie’s. “Uh, I’m… I’m fine. I’m alright. How—how are you, Georgie?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Georgie sighed and scooted closer, putting a hand on Jon’s knee. “Jon… I’m—”

“Do not say you’re worried about me,” Jon snapped. Still, he leaned into Georgie’s touch. “I don’t want to hear it.”

A beat. “Well, tough,” Georgie said, voice firm and gentle all at once. Jon closed his eyes. “Jon, you look awful. When was the last time you ate?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. A few moments passed. “I… I don’t know. I had, ah, I had a frozen dinner. I—I think it was yesterday? But maybe it wasn’t, I… I’m not sure.”

“When was the last time you showered?” Jon didn’t respond. Georgie sighed. “Jon, are you… are you still taking your meds?”

A long moment passed in silence. “None of your business,” he said, voice tense and quiet. Another moment passed.

“Jon, I think you need help.”

“I do not.” Jon set his mug down on the coffee table, moving away from her. “I don’t—I don’t need help, Georgie, I’m not—everything is just so—nobody understands—”

“Jon, hey,” Georgie said, putting her hands up. “I understand, okay? You can trust me, you know you can. I just wanna help you, Jon.”

Jon hated the way she was looking at him, the voice she was using to him. That fucking awful, quiet, soothing voice, like you would use to talk to a small child or a rabid animal you were trying to convince not to attack you while you attempted to sedate it.

Sedate it. Sedate it. Sedate it.

Jon’s eyes widened as his hands began to tremble. He glanced at the door, at the window. Of course. This was a trap. As soon as he came over, she had called somebody from some hospital to come find and restrain him, and they were on their way right now.

He stood up so quickly that he almost knocked over the mug of tea on the table. Georgie stood, too, looking surprised. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to figure out her ruse. “Jon, what—?”

“I have to go,” he muttered, shoving past her.

“Jon, wait—!”

He slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

“Hey, boss.”

Jon jumped, head whipping up so fast he nearly hurt his neck. Tim. Just Tim. But, he reminded himself, that doesn’t mean he should let his guard down—Tim could very well be coming in to kill him. Still, Jon couldn’t reveal that he knew what Tim might be up to. He cleared his throat and straightened his back, trying to read the emotions behind Tim’s furrowed brow and slight frown. What was he thinking? “Ah, yes. What is it, Tim?”

Tim waved a stack of papers. “The statement you were looking for.”

“The statement…?” Jon frowned, wracking his brain, searching through the past few hours.

Tim’s frown deepened. “The statement you asked me to get last night?”

“Right! Right, yes. Ah, just set it on the desk. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Tim walked over, setting the papers down. Jon looked him up and down. Tim seemed… different. A bit more gaunt, perhaps. A little paler. Had he always had such deep bags under his eyes? What was wrong with him? Jon’s heart began to race. What if Tim was the one Jon was certain had been sneaking into his flat at night? What if that was why he looked so tired?

“Jon?”

Jon jumped. “What?”

Tim leaned down. “Jon, I just said your name five times and you only responded to the last one. What’s going on with you?”

Jon tugged the collar of his button-up higher and smoothed out his jumper. “Nothing,” he said, trying to force his voice to be even. “Nothing is wrong, Tim. And I would appreciate you not trying to dig into my personal life.”

Something came over Tim’s face—annoyance, maybe? Anger? He let out a short breath. “Fine.” He turned, marching out the door and closing it shut behind him. Jon relaxed slightly as he went. Slightly.

Some time later—Jon honestly couldn’t tell you how long—there was a soft knock on the door. He jumped, suddenly wishing very, very strongly that he had had the sense to get a knife for his desk. “Come in,” he said, voice strained.

The door slowly pushed open. Jon’s heart raced. Martin stepped in, smiling gently over at him. “Hey, Jon.”

Jon sighed, looking back to the papers on his desk. “Yes, Martin, what do you want?”

“Ah, well… it’s three in the afternoon, and no one’s seen you leave your office since you got in. I was wondering if you’ve eaten lunch yet.”

Jon’s stomach growled audibly. He sighed. “I’m fine, Martin.”

A beat passed. “I—I’m going to the cafe. I was wondering if you wanted me to get you any—“

“I said I’m  _ fine _ , Martin.”

“... Okay.”

Hearing the notes of obvious hurt in Martin’s voice, Jon winced and looked up. Martin was on his way out the door. “Martin—“

Martin stopped. “Yes?”

Jon stared at him for a moment, completely stuck on what to do next. Finally, he sighed and said, “Would you bring me back a sandwich? Here…” He dug a fiver out of his wallet before standing. His legs began to wobble immediately, and he walked over to Martin with shaky legs. As he reached Martin, he swayed and began to fall. “Fuck—!”

“Whoa, hey!” Martin caught him, large hands steadying him. “Why don’t you sit back down, Jon?” Jon just nodded, allowing Martin to guide him back to his desk in the center of the room. “Jon…” Martin took in a deep breath. “I’m getting really worried about y—”

“I’m fine.” Jon dug his fingers into his thighs, trying to stop his hands from trembling. “I don’t know why everybody keeps just—just asking if I’m okay, I’m fine, I—why do you people keep asking that? I’m fine! I’m doing great! And I don’t—I don’t need you trying to, to look after me like I’m some kind of helpless child—I don’t need—it’s not—nothing is wrong, it—I don’t know why—I don’t—”

“Jon—”

“And everybody—” Jon briefly brought his hands from his thighs to his head, attempting to grab at his hair and finding nothing there. Where had his hair gone? Why was it so short? He let out a few loud, shaky breaths and settled for grabbing at his clothes instead. “Everybody keeps talking, talking to me like I’m—I know what’s going on! I’m not an  _ idiot _ !”

“I’m not saying you are, Jon.” Martin held his hands up, backing away a few feet. “Jon, it’s alright. I don’t think you’re an idiot, Jon, and I’m not trying to baby you. I’m just worried—”

“I don’t need your worry, Martin! You don’t know me, we’re not  _ friends _ , we’re just  _ coworkers _ .”

Silence rang through the room for a few moments as that hung in the air. When Martin spoke, his voice seemed strangely… tight. “Fine. Uh, I’ll just, uh—I’ll just go grab that sandwich, then. See you in a few.”

The sound of the door closing seemed to echo particularly loud in the nearly-empty room. Martin was gone. Jon was alone. He took his glasses off, setting them to the side with shaking hands before putting his head on his desk.

When Martin brought back his sandwich and dropped it off without a word, Jon quietly thanked him. Martin just nodded and left the room. Jon stared at the sandwich for several long, long minutes before picking it up and throwing it away.

* * *

Jon was alone. Jon was alone, and everybody was around him. Jon was alone in his house, and there were people in his living room. Jon was trapped within smothering silence, and he couldn’t hear himself think over the noise coming from his hallway. The flat above him had been empty for months. The flat above him was filled with conversation.

Jon was alone.

Jon was in danger.

He gripped the kitchen knife tight in his hands. All of the knives and scissors he owned were in his bedroom. He couldn’t risk people using them against him. His mattress was on the floor, the bedframe disassembled at the other end of the room. Couldn’t risk people hiding underneath him.

Jon was alone. Jon had always been alone.

* * *

Jon was in the tunnels under the Institute. He had no kitchen knife, no axe, no pipe.

Juergen Leitner was dead.

He was alone, and Jurgen Leitner was dead.

In movies and books and television shows, people who were crazy (people like him, he thought scornfully) always killed people. Sometimes they didn’t even know they had done it.

Had he killed Jurgen Leitner?

He took in several deep, shuddering breaths. The pipe. Jurgen Leitner had been murdered with the pipe. And there was no way he could have done that, right? He could barely carry the pipe, there’s no way he could have wielded it with enough force to kill a man. He hadn’t killed Jurgen Leitner. Jonathan Sims was a lot of things—rude, unsocial. Cowardly. But he was not a murderer.

Jonathan Sims had not murdered Jurgen Leitner. But he knew who had.

Sirens sounded above him. Jon winced. He was certain that he hadn’t killed Jurgen Leitner, but the police rarely believed people like him—they’d take one look at his medical history and call it evidence. He needed to leave. He needed to go somewhere safe.

Safe.

Jon knocked on the door, trying to steady his breath as he waited. A moment later, the door opened. “Hello—? Oh! Hi, Jon.”

“Hi, Georgie.” Jon took in a long, deep breath. “You were right. I’m sorry. I need help.”

A horrifically long beat passed, during which Jon nearly convinced himself he should run off into the night before Georgie could yell at him, curse at him, tell him she never wanted to see him again. But Georgie just smiled. “Good. Come on in.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there we go! One last thing I'd like to put out there: I would absolutely love to see any comments on this that anybody wants to write, but if you're going to comment, I'd ask you to please be sensitive of the fact that this is all written from personal experience. I've seen a lot of people mocking Jon and calling him stupid or ridiculous for his breakdown in season two, so pleeeease do not do that here. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at phant0mwise.


End file.
